At Sixes and Sevens
by Iced Blood
Summary: The Kaiba name has ever commanded respect, no matter the venture to which it settles itself. But when the illustrious patriarch of that old bloodline is suddenly removed from the equation, his two children are left to pick up the pieces: Seto, a boy genius with a mind fit to shape the future of the world; and Mokuba, a broken teen with just enough tenacity to keep him safe.
1. An Iron Crown I

_**Those who have read "Paved with Good Intentions: Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes" will know that I have experimented off and on with an AU scenario inspired by Kintatsujo on Tumblr. The scenario is a simple one: what if the Kaibas' ages were switched? What if Mokuba were Seto's legal guardian throughout the story, instead of the other way around?**_

 _ **I quickly realized, as I worked out the idea in my head, that there was a lot more to this concept than I'd originally seen on the surface. Owing to that, I knew that I would eventually have to explore it.**_

 _ **And from that exploration comes this project.**_

 _ **This story is, like "Kick a Hole in the Sky" before it, a twisting of canon to suit my own narrative purposes. There's a lot to learn from AUs, I think, and while "Sky" has a lot going for it, I think there's still a lot to take in from this idea, too.**_

 _ **In these scenes and chapters, you'll meet the same Kaibas you will remember from my other stories. Just … tweaked a bit.**_

 _ **Well. Maybe more than a bit.**_

 _ **I guess we'll just have to see.**_

* * *

 **.**

* * *

As morning drifted across the quiet barrier into afternoon, two teenage boys met in a private study room in their school's library to share stories.

One was dressed in a private school uniform; the other in a three-piece Armani suit. One had platinum hair; the other had jet-black. One had brown eyes; the other, violet. Aside from these ultimately superficial deviations, the two boys could have been twins.

Ryou Bakura looked up from his history textbook to regard Mokuba Kaiba with an uncertain smile.

Mokuba gave, in exchange for that smile, a friendly sort of smirk. He then sat down, and said without preamble: "My brother said to me this morning—first thing out of his mouth, mind you. He said, 'What moron thought _The The Angels Angels_ would be a good name for a sports team?'"

The two boys were seated opposite each other at a heavy table loaded down with books and notepads that were apparently color-coded by subject. Ryou set down his pencil, confusion flitting across his face. "Excuse me?"

Mokuba gesticulated randomly. "Seto. My brother. Haven't I mentioned him yet?" Ryou shook his head. "Sorry."

"What's this about . . . 'The The Angels Angels?'"

Mokuba shrugged. "He's talking about the Anaheim Angels. Said he looked them up this morning. Their official name is 'The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim.' Since 'Los Angeles' already translates to 'The Angels,' the name actually translates to . . ." He trailed off, and gestured invitingly.

Ryou's expression was blanker than slate. "Aha. Right."

Mokuba's smirk turned self-conscious. "He, um . . . well, there's no real label for this. He . . . likes to prove how smart he is, basically. He'll find some new theory, or observation, and regale me with evidence to support his stance. Last week, he showed me a PowerPoint presentation on a more efficient order for the English alphabet."

Ryou chuckled at this, which seemed to be his version of an out-and-out laugh. This quiet reserve was the first thing Mokuba had realized about his newest classmate. Mokuba thought, in all honesty, that that was what had drawn him to strike up conversation in the first place.

It was an improvement over his usual social circle, at least.

Ryou raised an eyebrow. "Our alphabet's origin can be traced back to Egypt. But, I suppose back then, the focus was more on logography than phonics." He frowned, put a finger to his chin. "The Middle East, Europe . . . the Phoenicians, the Greeks . . . I don't think there _is_ any reason for the order of our alphabet. But it's been basically unchanged since the Bronze Age." Ryou's smile turned cheeky. "The ancients must have had a reason for that."

Mokuba laughed; unlike Ryou's, this laugh was loud, almost raucous. "Okay, I need to introduce you two. I'll be the first to admit my ignorance on this subject. I think he'd love to have someone to compare notes with."

"How old is your brother?" Ryou asked.

"Nine." Mokuba waited a beat. "And don't think I'm just using an expression about those notes, by the way." He gestured to the scattered pads on the table. "He's a scholar after your own heart, I'd say. Every time he picks up a new project, he buys a three-ring binder. The alphabet has about a hundred sheets so far, bound up in bright red and sitting on his desk at home."

"He sounds like an excellent student . . . or a horrible one," Ryou said.

Mokuba laughed again. "Somehow, in ways that I can't quite figure out, he's both."


	2. An Iron Crown II

_**I won't lie and tell you fine folks that I know where this story is going to end. I don't. All I know is this: it's going to be a bumpy, winding, treacherous sort of road that takes us to that end. Isn't that how it always goes?**_

 _ **But still. There's something particularly insidious, I think, about the changes offered by this AU. I don't know why that's the first word that comes to mind when I write this. I know that the first word that came to mind when I found Kintatsujo's artwork was "ADORABLE" so where's the darkness come from?**_

 _ **Clearly, my own traitorous imagination.**_

 _ **But still. Like any tale involving the Kaibas, no matter what their ages … there may be trials, but there will also be rewards.**_

 _ **I guess what I'm saying here is … give them time. They'll work it out.**_

 _ **They always do.**_

* * *

 _ **.**_

* * *

On the day his life shattered into too many pieces, Seto Kaiba walked through the halls of his home like a king, even though he was—by a wide, _wide_ margin—the smallest member of the household. Everyone knew that _he_ was the master's favorite, and this included Seto himself. This fact had been drilled into him for several years now, and it had reached the point that he didn't even notice the servants passing by. He didn't see them walking, he didn't see them stop, he didn't see them bow their heads.

When a member of the kitchen staff added a song to the old dance—saying "Good afternoon, Bocchan" as he passed—Seto blinked and looked around for a moment, before realizing that an _actual person_ had spoken to him. He stared up at the man, then smiled. _Yes_ , he might have been thinking; there was no way to honestly tell, _that is appropriate_. _I am Bocchan_ , _and Bocchan is me_.

Typically, Seto was no fan of cutesy nicknames. He much preferred to be given the proper respect that was due his position _and_ his ability. But, since "Your Highness" was apparently inappropriate, he settled for "Bocchan" because . . . well, it had a certain ring to it, and really . . . it was pretty close. And traditional.

Mokuba, for his part, seemed to find it funny. "Our family immigrated to the U.S. about twenty years ago, kiddo," he would say. "You barely know six phrases in Japanese, just about all of them picked up because you're a snob and refuse to watch _Power Rangers_ in English like the rest of us. What's this talk of 'tradition?'"

To which Seto had seventeen perfectly acceptable answers. None of them had swayed the elder Kaiba brother so far.

. . . He knew a lot more than _six_ phrases.

When Seto made it to the top of the stairs and set foot on the second-floor hallway, carrying a tray of sandwiches and peeled fruits like he was escorting priceless treasures, he turned left. This was significant because he was the only one _allowed_ to turn left these days. Ever since the master had fallen ill, only a certain number of trusted members of the staff had been permitted to see him. Now that the Kaiba patriarch was bedridden, that list had shortened considerably.

To two people, actually.

"Daimon . . . and me," Seto murmured under his breath. His face turned smug.

As if summoned by the sound of his name, the squat old troll who acted as Gozaburo Kaiba's right hand spirited his way down the hall, going in the opposite direction. His glasses gleamed with an otherworldly polish, and Seto felt a twinge of superstitious fear.

He blamed this on his brother. Mokuba was always talking about how Daimon was dangerous. Though, Mokuba would never say _why_. Still, his brother thought the old man was bad news, and part of Seto would always listen to his brother without question. It was like instinct.

Nobody knew how old Daimon _actually_ was. Some members of the house staff were convinced that he'd appeared, already old and bitter, on the day that the Kaiba Estate had been built. They said he wouldn't die until the house disappeared . . . destroyed by a fire, maybe. Or torn down, brick by brick. Exorcized. Cleansed.

Seto realized with a sudden jolt that it wasn't _just_ Mokuba who didn't trust Gozaburo's second-in-command.

The young Kaiba tossed these thoughts away as he stepped up to his father's bedroom door. He lifted up his tray, pushed down the ornate brass handle with the back of one hand, and pushed the door open with his opposite shoulder. This he did in absolute silence.

There was a small table to Seto's left inside the room, where Gozaburo kept certain Important Things™. Books, and contracts, and correspondence with big-wigs from every corner of the world. Seto set the food there, and turned toward his father's four-poster bed.

"Father," Seto said softly. "I've brought lunch. Are you hungry?"

He waited. No answer.

Gozaburo had first gone to the hospital four months ago. Discreetly, secretly, as he did most everything. No one knew what it was that could drive a Kaiba to his knees like this sickness had, but everyone had started to talk about what would happen if Gozaburo never left his bed again. Who would run his empire? Who would handle his business?

 _Me_ , Seto thought with a frightening kind of conviction, _but that doesn't matter_. _Father won't die_. _He'll beat this_ , _like he beats everything_ , _and everyone will feel pretty stupid when he does_.

"Must be sleeping," Seto murmured aloud.

He approached the bed, just in case. It wouldn't do to assume Gozaburo was sleeping and just _leave_ , then find out later that he just hadn't heard Seto's question, or had simply opted not to answer. Gozaburo didn't sit well with even the most minor of offenses, regardless of why they'd been committed.

Seto's brain took in the sight of his father without much real interest, at first. He just assumed the most obvious scenario—Ah- _doy_ , of _course_ he was sleeping!—and had actually turned to leave. Then he turned back.

Something was wrong.

"Father?"

His father's eyes were _almost_ closed. But they weren't. They _weren't_ closed, and that was wrong. Why was he just lying there, staring at the ceiling? Why wasn't he shifting his weight? Why weren't his sheets moving around, from his breathing?

Gozaburo Kaiba was a big man, big as life, and his presence had always been even bigger. Even confined to his quarters, tucked into his bed, the man had been a thunderstorm.

Why . . . why were his lips blue?

"Father? _Father_?"

Seto grabbed his father's arm. It was cold. Stiff.

Unyielding.

"Oh . . . o-oh, no. No. No-no-no."

Seto's voice hitched in his throat. Broke. The shards threatened to strangle him.

". . . Papa?"

Seto Kaiba screamed.


	3. An Iron Crown III

_**These early chapters don't correspond to anything specific when it comes to canon. They're mostly meant to introduce the stakes and set things in motion. As this story unfolds, we will be seeing various canon events and how they change based on what's changed.**_

 _ **But mostly, "At Sixes and Sevens" is a glimpse into the lives of a couple kids trying to make it in a magic-saturated sitcom.**_

 _ **It's much more "Paved with Good Intentions" than "Kick a Hole in the Sky," if you take my meaning.**_

* * *

 **.**

* * *

"So then . . . okay, remember I told you about the chef's _complete_ obsession with that potato salad, right? Acted like it was the Holy Grail of side dishes and woe betide anyone who said otherwise. It wasn't even very good, to be honest. Too sweet. I mean, okay, _Seto_ liked it, and that's basically a miracle, so I guess I should give credit where it's due. But anyway—"

Mokuba was cut off by a sudden, sharp ringing that felt like a blade slicing into the air. Ryou flinched, confused for a moment, until his companion flashed an apologetic look and reached into his jacket. Mokuba came out with a smartphone that probably cost more than Ryou spent in six months, put it to his ear, and his face assumed an expression that would have looked more at home on a king at war.

"Kaiba," Mokuba snapped; even his voice had taken on a royal identity.

Ryou tried to go back to studying, thinking that the day was probably shot as far as prepping for an exam went, but he couldn't manage to maintain any semblance of focus. He kept wondering, as he listened to his new acquaintance— _friend_?—talk, whether or not Domino City would be any different. Any better. Whether _this_ school would stay standing after Ryou had attended for more than a month. Whether _these_ teachers would do anything but shy away when Ryou entered the classroom. Whether _this_ police force would—

"Stop with the jargon and _tell_ me!" Mokuba almost shouted, and suddenly the tension in the room felt sentient. Ryou blinked several times, felt his breath grow heavy in him, and had to bend every faculty he possessed to maintaining a calm façade.

The shadows in the room, faded into nothing while Mokuba had been laughing and gesticulating randomly with his hands as he soliloquized, were moving. Ryou could see them, like insects; like tiny reminders that moving to a new city—no matter how big, how bustling, how densely populated, how bright—didn't banish the ghosts of old memories.

As Mokuba's face shifted again, into a look of crestfallen shock, Ryou Bakura thought he could hear a voice, a familiar voice, whisper into the back of his head that it was happening again.

Already.

 _It was happening again_.

". . . Thank you," Mokuba murmured softly, lowering his gaze to the table, then staring into the patterns in the wood grain. "I'll be right there. No, that's . . . that's fine. I'll drive myself. You know what to do."

Mokuba slipped his phone back into his jacket, stood up, and drew in a deep, steadying breath. "I have to . . . cut this one short, Ryou. Sorry we didn't get to the actual studying part of the program. Gotta get home."

"What, um . . . what's happened?" Ryou dared to ask, licking at his lips as his insides shriveled up like a desert. "Something . . . serious, I take it." He berated himself for saying something so patently obvious and _stupid_ , but he'd always had a habit of being unable to properly articulate himself when he was nervous.

Mokuba's eyebrows raised. "Yeah, I'd . . . say this is serious."

A pause.

"My father's dead."


	4. An Iron Crown IV

_**The dynamic between Mokuba and Ryou here is based on a long-running theory in my head that Ryou would get along pretty famously with the Kaibas. I don't know why. I can't pinpoint it to save my life. But there's just something about him that fits into the Kaibas' tapestry.**_

 _ **I decided to use this AU as a springboard to explore the idea.**_

 _ **I'm not gonna say I was right, just yet. But I don't think I've been proven wrong, either.**_

* * *

 **.**

* * *

Ryou Bakura's reaction to Mokuba's sudden admission was equally as devastated as Mokuba's was nonchalant. Which was to say that all the emotions that _should_ have been rushing through Mokuba's blood—considering the implications, the ripple effects, of Gozaburo Kaiba's death if absolutely _nothing_ else—seemed to have abandoned him to take up residence in Ryou's gentle, cultured, _soft_ face.

"Oh . . . oh, my God . . ." Ryou's face was a crash course in what Mokuba was sure that he _should_ have been feeling. "I . . . Mokuba, I'm so _sorry_ , I . . ."

Mokuba's eyes flitted with almost-tears, but all the same he felt a smile tweaking his lips. "It's . . . it's okay. It's fine." Then he chuckled. "He's been sick for a long . . . time now. This is kind of a relief, to be honest."

Why was there so much _guilt_ in Ryou's face? Why did he look like he was ready to bolt from the room and flee the country? The laughter bubbling up in Mokuba's throat disappeared as quickly as it had manifested, and he was left feeling so tired that he thought he might strip straight past sleep and into another state of being entirely.

Ryou's face scrunched up a bit. "You don't look . . . relieved, if you don't mind my saying. I mean, you _do_ , but . . ." He blinked. "This doesn't bother you at all. Does it? You aren't sad. You aren't angry. You're just . . . relieved." Mokuba opened his mouth, but words wouldn't come. "W-What . . . did he _do_ to you?"

People talked about _big_ questions. Usually in the context of politics, or religion. Who are we? Why are we here? What is the meaning of life? Mokuba Kaiba had never spent much time ruminating on those questions, or others like them, because they never seemed to matter. He had made a habit, in fact, of taking questions and slicing them into little pieces so as to better process them. His life was filled with thousands of tiny questions and even tinier answers.

The gravity of Ryou's question, the _weight_ of it, felt like the earth itself settling seductively onto Mokuba's shoulders. And Mokuba realized in that moment that, since he'd never bothered to answer big questions, he had no _experience_ with them.

He almost offered up the truth. He almost opened the floodgates.

He almost _screamed_.

But then . . .

"N-Nothing to write home about, Ryou. I won't lie and tell you you're _wrong_. Whatever you're thinking. My father wouldn't win any awards. But that's as far as it goes for today." Ryou flinched again. He looked ready to cry. "Anyway, I have to go. I have to check on Seto. I have to . . . make sure he's okay."

"Is that really a . . . concern?" Ryou blurted out, and something new was in his voice now. Something dark. Something cosmic. But then Mokuba blinked and it was gone. His new friend was suddenly nervous and uncomfortable again. Ryou fidgeted and looked around the room. "I mean, well . . . look. Clearly your relationship with your father is . . . _wasn't_ very—n-never mind. I just mean . . . if _you're_ relieved, I would venture to think your brother would be, too. Right?"

Mokuba sighed heavily. His eyebrows went up again, and he studied the table again.

"No. He's probably devastated. In fact, I'm _sure_ he is. And that, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen . . . was the genius of Gozaburo Kaiba."

The new Kaiba patriarch turned on a heel, and started to leave.

"You take care of yourself, Ryou. I have to go gather up whatever shards and pieces that old bastard left of my brother's heart."


	5. An Iron Crown V

_**You had to see this one coming.**_

 _ **I can't keep my boys separated for long.**_

 _ **(A note: owing to FF-Net's rules, I had to remove the lyrics to the music referenced in this chapter. It's Fall Out Boy. Seto's favorite band is Fall Out Boy.)**_

* * *

 **.**

* * *

The elder Kaiba brother always felt like a prison guard when he waited for the front gates of the Kaiba Estate to permit him. Mostly, he thought, because if he allowed himself to feel like a _prisoner_ , the cheap, rage-tempered bravado that served him for courage would shatter like a stained glass window that had made acquaintance with a brick.

It had been a lot easier to work with the metaphor, Mokuba reflected, ever since Daimon had—through some form of corporate sorcery—landed him a permit to carry concealed. Mokuba was a Kaiba, after all, and a Kaiba was always a target. Even at school. Even at the grocery store. Even asleep in his own bed.

He parked in the garage next to Travis Copeland's pine-green Subaru Forester, idly wondering what sort of car he should pick out for _himself_ now that the old man was no longer an obstacle, and transferred his gleaming, stainless Sig Sauer pistol from its place in his backpack to the shoulder holster underneath his jacket.

He hoped that it would be nothing more than a macabre good luck charm.

The estate's house staff seemed, at first glance, to be going through their normal, everyday routines. But there was something about the _speed_ at which they milled about the halls and parlors that set Mokuba's teeth on edge.

A young woman in a navy suit stopped him and bowed. "Welcome home, Master Kaiba," she said quickly. "I've taken the liberty of taking some of the most pertinent pieces of paperwork to your bedchamber. I'm . . . sure you've heard." She said this last as an afterthought, and turned her eyes up to Mokuba's face.

Mokuba nodded. "I have," he said. He clapped the woman on the shoulder. "Good work."

"My condolences, Master Kaiba."

". . . Thank you, Aya."

She smiled. Perhaps she was surprised that he knew her name.

The _previous_ Master Kaiba surely hadn't.

He stalked across the front parlor to the stairs leading up to the second floor, making a point to catch the eyes of any worker he saw, nodding, and seeing who nodded back. Everything on the Kaiba Estate was a power play, and Mokuba knew better than anyone who had bothered to teach him that he needed all the allies he could land right now.

But then Mokuba found his brother's bedroom, and his primary mission shouldered its way past paranoia and staged itself dead-center in his mind.

The door was closed, and that was no real surprise. The door was _locked_ , and that was only slightly less of one. Mokuba could hear Seto's favorite music blaring from behind the threshold.

"He's been playing that song on repeat for two hours," came a voice on Mokuba's right. "Master Daimon checked in on him. Said he was . . . sleeping."

Mokuba glared silently at the door.

He knocked.

Nothing.

He knocked again. "Seto," he said.

Still nothing.

Mokuba closed his eyes, conjured up something old and nostalgic, and licked at his lips. His glance to the man still standing beside him was an involuntary muscle spasm, but it was enough to get the message across. The man—thisone Mokuba _didn't_ know—disappeared.

When Mokuba spoke next, it was in the gentlest voice he could muster.

"Seto? Hey, c'mon, baby brother. It's me. You can open the door for me, can't you?"

He knocked again.

Mokuba didn't realize that he'd been holding his breath until it came out in a rush, as the music turned down and he heard quiet shuffling inside the boy's room. Mokuba knelt down.

When the door opened, and Seto barreled directly into his brother's arms and started to sob, Mokuba was ready for him.

The elder Kaiba cradled the younger like a newborn. Seto clutched at his brother's jacket and wailed, and some part of Mokuba reared up and _roared_ because it was patently obvious that _no one_ had thought to honestly check on Master Kaiba's prized protégé.

"Hey . . . hey, now . . ." Mokuba whispered. "It's okay, baby, I'm here. Big brother's got you. Cry it out. You're okay. You're safe. I'm right here."

Mokuba rested his chin against the top of his brother's head, and wondered just how many of the old master's confederates would join him in the afterlife by the time night claimed the remaining shards of the day.


	6. An Iron Crown VI

**_This is the first chapter where I feel we get a glimpse into what Mokuba's like in this particular version of the YGO world._**

 ** _And what kind of training he's had._**

* * *

 ** _._**

* * *

Mokuba made a point of standing stone-still, rigid and unyielding as a statue, as the entire house staff milled into the front parlor on the ground floor. He kept his hands at his sides. Loose but still, like the rest of him. No fists. No crossed arms. No indication that he was threatened.

He was _Master Kaiba_ now, and this was the moment to prove it.

He'd put Seto to bed, kissed his forehead, promised that everything would be better when he woke up. Every time Mokuba contemplated just standing back and acting like a teenager who'd just lost his only parent, he remembered the heartbreak in his brother's big blue eyes. He remembered what this estate had done.

He remembered what this estate was _capable_ of doing.

Mokuba waited for Daimon to slink into the room like a poltergeist before he began to speak.

"As you all are well aware, my father, Gozaburo Kaiba, died this morning," Mokuba announced, his voice like a whip crack. "I have not called you here to talk about him, but rather to discuss how his legacy will continue." He looked around at them. He wondered how many of them would still be employed in the morning.

No one spoke.

Mokuba took one, very calculated, step forward. No one moved. He said, "Plenty of you know the extent of my experience under my predecessor's tutelage." This was a calculated move. He watched their reactions. Gauged how many of them were offended, versus how many were stone-cold neutral. "I will be the first to admit that I have not been adequately trained to take his place. However, as the previous Master Kaiba's eldest son, it is my duty to uphold his name. To usher the Kaiba name into a new age. I ask you, his most trusted, to help me. Stand by me, and I swear on everything my name stands for in this city that I will stand by you. Support me in this, my moment of weakness, and I will see to it that each and every one of you will never want for anything again."

More than a few smiles acted as beacons. Mokuba allowed his own expression to school itself into something positive.

He looked at one of the kitchen workers. Ken Yamashiro was in his thirties, and dressed like a government operative. Mokuba graced him with a full smile. "I don't think I need to tell you that my brother is taking this loss _very_ hard. He loved my father more than anyone. Can I ask you to make sure that his favorite dinner is waiting for him when he comes down from his room tonight?"

Mokuba waited. Watched.

Ken's eyes flitted to Daimon; Daimon nodded.

They thought they were subtle.

"Of course, Mast—"

Yamashiro's words were cut off and replaced with a gurgling _Urlghk_! sound when Mokuba sent his right fist _crashing_ into the man's face, sending him sailing through the air. Yamashiro crumpled to the floor, nursing a broken nose. As blood dribbled through his fingers and down his chin, Mokuba swept a raptor's glare across every other face in the room.

"Does anyone _else_ want to test my patience today?!"

No answer.

Absolute, crushing silence.

When the new Master Kaiba spoke next, it was in a deathly whisper: "Question my ability to run this house, and I will listen. Question my _right_ to run this house, and I will show you the door. I will lift you up and cast you out _personally_. I am _not_ Daimon's puppet king. You do _not_ answer to _him_ anymore. _I_ am the word of law in this house."

He glared daggers into Daimon's rounded lenses; Daimon, for his part, seemed to have finally remembered just what sort of monster he and Gozaburo Kaiba had spent the past three years building.

"I . . . will brook . . . _no_. . . interference." Mokuba turned his attention back to the ones who might yet be saved. "Have I made myself clear?"

To a one, they said: " _Yes, Master Kaiba_."

Mokuba nodded. Then he shot a finger out and pointed. " _You_."

A middle-aged man with slicked black hair and a thin mustache stood straighter, and looked like he wanted to salute. "Sir," he said.

Mokuba crooked a finger. "You called me earlier today, to inform me of my father's passing. Tsukuda, correct?"

The man stepped forward, bowed at the waist. "Yes, sir. On both counts."

"I would speak with you alone. The rest of you, attend to your duties."

The sound of so many feet scrambling to get their owners out of the room sounded like peals of thunder.

Mokuba glared down at Ken Yamashiro like a malevolent god.

"Clean yourself up. Make my brother's dinner, or get the _fuck_ out of my building. I don't care which. But whichever you choose, _do it quickly_."


	7. An Iron Crown VII

_**Establishing the New Kaiba Hierarchy™. It's not an easy thing, but it'll work out. I'll admit that my take on this whole operation is a fair bit darker than the inspiration pieces from which I started, but all the same … my boys aren't just fodder for angst. I don't operate that way.**_

 _ **There's a light at the end of the tunnel.**_

… _**Eventually.**_

* * *

 **.**

* * *

"Sir, if I may . . . make a request? Call me Isono."

Mokuba eyed the man suspiciously, wondering what ulterior motive this man might have, because nobody worked on the Kaiba family's payroll without an ulterior motive or two . . . or three . . . or six. He cleared his throat. "Very well. Noted. I have a question for you, then. Isono."

"Yes, sir?"

"Why did you take it upon yourself to call me? If I recall correctly, we hadn't even _talked_ to each other before today. So . . . why?"

Isono shrugged self-consciously. "I thought it strange, and rather inappropriate, that no one higher up on the . . . ahem . . . food chain had bothered. Believe me when I understand that you and the previous Master Kaiba had no love lost between you." Isono inclined his head. "Forgive me."

Mokuba waved dismissively. "Nothing to forgive. You're right."

"Be that as it may," Isono continued, "that's no excuse to keep you in the dark. I can only imagine how your, ah . . . play, back there, would have gone over, if you'd had no idea what was going on when you stepped onto the grounds." Isono smirked. "I do believe Mister Daimon would have taken over the entire staff by the time school let out. I don't know about you, but . . . that doesn't sit well with me."

Mokuba raised an eyebrow. "I can see why my father hired you."

Isono bowed his head again. "I suppose I've no recourse but to take that as a compliment. Was this all you wished to speak about, sir? Or was there something else on your mind?"

"I'm sure that's why he did it," Mokuba said suddenly. "Daimon was doing what he could to ensure that I was on uneven footing. That he had the edge. No doubt he kept the rest of the staff away from Seto on purpose, too. To sweep in when my brother was at his most vulnerable, and play grand vizier, or doting uncle, or . . . whatever." Mokuba shook his head, chuckled, and made direct eye contact with Isono Tsukuda for the first time.

They were earnest, those eyes. Harsh, heavy, but honest.

"Just doing my part," Isono said idly. Then his face scrunched up as something unpleasant seemed to cross his mind. "Do you honestly think that . . . Mister Daimon would use the young master's grief as a bargaining chip? Even though he was . . . forgive me again . . . the favorite?"

"Absolutely," Mokuba said, without a sliver of hesitation. "Seto was chosen. Seto is special. Daimon is a leech. This is what he does. Imagine what would have happened if Daimon had gotten to Seto before I did. Just . . . picture it. What do you think would have happened? Honestly. Don't worry about insulting me. I know far better than you do what this family's reputation is built on."

Isono drew in a breath, let it out, and crossed his arms. "Likely enough . . . he would have made it seem as though your absence were a conscious choice on your part. As though the only one _truly_ on Young Master Seto's side, the only one cheering in his corner . . . was Mister Daimon himself." Isono raised an eyebrow. "Which is exactly what you managed to avoid, by coming home before he expected you."

Mokuba chuckled. "Exactly. Thank you, Isono. I owe you one."

"Perhaps. But there's still one . . . major question. What is it you _actually_ wanted to talk to me about?"

Mokuba cleared his throat. "I've a job for you, Isono Tsukuda. I want Daimon gone. _Now_. I want him out of the equation. Can you do that? Can you . . . ensure that?"

Isono's eyes turned flinty. His face went slack.

He tightened his tie, and adjusted his jacket.

"I can, Master Kaiba."

" _Will_ you?"

". . . I will, Master Kaiba."


	8. An Iron Crown VIII

_**Working with Big Brother Mokuba in this story so far has been eye-opening, to say the least. But, of course, that's only one half of this AU's central equation.**_

 _ **What about Baby Seto?**_

* * *

 **.**

* * *

Seto Kaiba blinked wearily as he sat up in bed, hours after his brother had put him there. The only thing he could see, as he regained full consciousness, were the spitfire lenses of his butler's glasses.

"Good evening, Bocchama," Daimon said. "How are you feeling?"

Seto frowned. "Tired," he mumbled. "Sweaty." He ripped off the covers of his bed and kicked them off. "What do you want, Daimon?"

"Merely what _you_ want, Bocchama," Daimon said. "For order to be restored. We both know that Master Kaiba was grooming _you_ to lead his legacy into the next generation." Seto flinched violently at the mention of his father, but didn't speak. "Which is why it concerns me so much that . . . no. No, I shouldn't say."

Seto's eyes narrowed. "Then why were you _talking_?" he snapped.

"It's merely that . . . I shouldn't like to upset you further, Bocchama. But it seems that your esteemed brother has . . . taken advantage of the uproar that Master Kaiba's unfortunate passing has ca—"

"He's _dead_ , Daimon," Seto cut in. "He didn't _pass_ anywhere."

". . . Forgive me, Bocchama."

A new voice entered the fray: "It's so kind of you, sir, to use the young master's grief as an excuse to manipulate him. Your true character truly shines in the wake of this tragedy."

Seto blinked, and stared at the open doorway across his bedroom, where a figure in a nondescript black suit now stood. He was tall, broad-shouldered. His hair was slicked back. He had a little mustache, and his mouth was a thin gash underneath it.

Daimon frowned, and it did unpleasant things to his face. "Pardon me?"

Another man might have taken the old goat's tone as a threat.

"Master Kaiba has not _taken advantage_ of anything, and it pains me to see you trying to blacklist the young master's _remaining_ family after such a pivotal pillar has just been taken from him. The man's not even cold yet, for Christ's sake. I might have expected _some_ decency."

"You talk to _me_ of decency? Tell me why Mokuba has been undermining _everything_ Master Kaiba fought for!"

"Mm. Master Kaiba. Bocchama. Mokuba. I can certainly see the hierarchy _you're_ trying to build," the man with the mustache said, with a blade hidden in his voice. " _Master Kaiba_ is maintaining order. Something the young master is going to _need_ in order to grow properly. He was _concerned_ about you, Daimon. I can see why. You change faces as often as I change ties. So. How about you stop haunting a little boy's private sanctuary while he's grieving? How about you stop painting Master Kaiba as a turncoat, when he is one of the few members of this household _actually_ working in Young Master Seto's best interests?"

The man with the mustache pulled something from his jacket.

"Or shall we bring it to Master Kaiba's attention that you've entered his brother's room without permission?"

"You think _I_ need _permission_?!" Daimon blustered.

The man with the mustache chuckled. "Seto Kaiba is the heir to everything built by the Kaiba name. _Of course_ you need permission. To do _anything_ in this house. I think you've forgotten, after so many years, that you are a _servant_. With no more authority than I."

"I have seniority, Tsukuda. _I hired you_."

"I am here directly on Master Kaiba's instructions. I don't think I have cause to worry about my job. I'm _doing_ it. Are you?"

" _Enough_!" Seto snarled. "This is _my_ room! _I_ decide who comes inside and who doesn't!" Daimon started to chuckle, until Seto leveled a look on him that could have frozen the sun. "Get out. _Now_."

Tsukuda holstered his weapon. He bowed, gesturing grandly to the door. "May I, Young Master? Perhaps I might . . . speed this along."

Seto threw out a hand. "Fine. Get rid of him. But come back when you're done. I want to _talk_ to you."

Tsukuda bowed again. "Of course, Young Master."

Seto flopped back onto his bed, turned away, and would hear no more.


	9. An Iron Crown IX

"So . . . _you're_ 'Master Kaiba' now, huh?"

Mokuba didn't miss his brother's tone, and had to admit—to himself, if no one else—that it hurt. He'd known that Seto would take the news of his beloved patriarch badly, and that he would lash out. He'd known that Seto would bristle at the idea of someone _else_ taking Gozaburo's place, when he had spent so many years being groomed with the idea that _he_ was the master's chosen successor.

Isono gave Mokuba a look, but Mokuba didn't pay much attention to it. His attention was locked on Seto. The elder Kaiba took solace in the fact that the younger was attacking his dinner with all his usual gusto. Seto often found eating to be little more than a nuisance, and had to be reminded three or four times that food wasn't _optional_.

He always made an exception out of macaroni casserole.

So long as it was cooked to his specifications, that was. Red bell peppers. _Only red_. None of that orange or yellow nonsense, and woe betide anyone who thought _green_ was an option. Sharp cheddar. _Fresh_ garlic. Enough black pepper to kill small animals.

Mokuba had checked the kitchen when Isono told him that his brother was awake. Ken Yamashiro had left. A fresh hire, Liam Connolly, had taken over the job of Seto's evening meal.

"You do know his . . . particulars, I hope," Mokuba had said.

Connolly was a slim young man with his brown hair pulled into a high tail that was almost a bun, and a meticulously sculpted, thin beard. His skin was heavily tanned, as though he'd spent any number of years outside in malevolent heat, and the overall dark caste to the man made his uniform almost unbearable.

He wore crisp, traditional, blindingly bright chef's whites. Mokuba had been only slightly surprised that he didn't wear a toque to complete the look. But, sadly, he'd been conspicuously hatless. Nonetheless, he carried himself with the bearing of a master, and Mokuba had realized quite quickly that he'd probably found his new head chef.

In answer to Mokuba's question, the man had given a jaunty little salute. "Not a problem, chief. Just you watch."

Sitting here in the dining room, watching his brother descend upon his food like a natural disaster, Mokuba had to admit that Connolly's confidence had not been misplaced. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised.

Even the lowest-ranked member of the Kaibas' house staff was head and shoulders above most.

Mokuba waited until Seto was mostly finished to speak.

"Yes, Seto," he said. "I'm . . . Master Kaiba now."

"Bet _that's_ cool," the boy muttered.

Mokuba ignored the jibe. He reminded himself that Seto was grieving. This tiny little wunderkind had no reason to understand why Gozaburo Kaiba's death was worth celebrating. Why purging that urban warlord's memory from the earth was a noble errand worth nothing less than Mokuba's full attention.

Seto's Papa was dead.

"It's what we have to work with," Mokuba said eventually, choosing his words carefully. Seto eyed his brother suspiciously. "Seto, I'm not going to pretend that I like this arrangement any more than you do. But it's either this, or . . ."

Something cut Mokuba short.

He wasn't sure what.

Seto's sharp expression gave way to confusion. "Or what?"

"If I . . . if I let you take the reins at your age . . . I'll be deemed unfit to take care of you." Seto blinked. "Nobody _dared_ questioned _him_. Otousama was a well-established member of Domino City's elite. Us? We're children. Afterthoughts. There will be wolves at the door within the day, and if I don't present myself as a picture of perfection in my capacity as your guardian, then the courts will . . ."

Mokuba left the rest unsaid. Yet another calculation in a series of calculations.

Seto was staring at him.

Mokuba sighed and shook his head. He tried again: "Let me . . . let me handle things for now. Okay, kiddo? Let me clean up all these legal issues, clear the floor. Then we'll see what we can do to . . . make Kaiba-Corp what it _should_ be."

Seto studied his brother for a while.

Then the smallest of smiles tilted his lips upward.

". . . Okay."

"I'm gonna need your help," Mokuba said in a sudden flash of inspiration. "You're the visionary. I'm just muscle."

Seto's smile widened. "Aye-aye, Kaiba-shachou."

Mokuba grinned, ruffled his brother's hair, and ignored the searching look Isono—their silent sentinel—was leveling on him.


	10. An Iron Crown X

_**It's a new year as I post this. 2017 begins.**_

 _ **For anyone wondering about my other projects, including any number of the ones I've let flounder by the wayside for a long, long time, I beg patience. The past couple of years have been seriously difficult for me, and while I've tried to keep things ongoing, tried to ensure that I keep things up-to-date, I'll be the first to admit that I haven't made the best job of it.**_

 _ **I'm working on it, y'all. I'm not ready to give up the ghost.**_

 _ **Not by a long shot.**_

* * *

 **.**

* * *

" _That sounds_ . . . _exhausting_."

"It wasn't particularly refreshing, I'll admit that."

It was three in the morning. Mokuba sat in his old bedchamber, which would have to serve as his office until he could find a new space to set up. He had entertained the thought of taking over Gozaburo's rooms, but had nixed the idea almost immediately. He could only imagine how Seto would take that.

" _Are you going to be_ . . . _you know_ , _finishing the school year_?" Ryou had answered on the second ring, even though Mokuba's sudden decision to call him had come well after midnight. " _It sounds like you're going to be busy_. _Taking over an estate_ , _starting a new job_? _I mean_ . . . _president of a company_?"

"I'll have to make some . . . adjustments," Mokuba admitted, "but for the most part, I don't think much will change about my daily routine except the size and stupidity of the children I'll have to deal with."

Ryou made a sound in his throat that didn't really come through on the phone.

" _You're very cavalier about this_ , _Mokuba_. _Forgive me_ , _but_ . . . _it's concerning_."

"Consider it a coping mechanism," Mokuba muttered; he didn't have the heart to tell his new friend that, compared to Gozaburo, dealing with the rest of the world was so safe that it was boring. "If I permit these issues the gravity they deserve, they'll crush me."

Silence at the other end. Then, " _Fair enough_."

Mokuba waited for a follow-up statement, but didn't get one.

He wondered if that was as apocalyptic as he thought it was.

Then he said, "We should see about meeting up over the weekend."

" _Oh_! _Um_ . . . _yes_! _Certainly_! _I'd_ . . . _I'd like that_."

Mokuba chuckled. _**Poor guy**_ , he thought. _**Probably not used to being on the receiving end of invitations**_.

"Listen, Ryou . . . thanks for listening. Regardless of how I'm making it sound, things _are_ going to be crazy for a while around here. I'm worried about Seto. I'm not sure what's in that boy's head, but I don't think it's good."

" _There's no need to thank me_. _I wouldn't presume to give you advice_ , _but_ . . . _I think you're doing the right thing already_. _Support him_. _Make the transition as smooth as you can_. _Make sure_ . . . _make sure he knows that he's safe_. _That it's_ . . . _okay to grieve_."

". . . You're right. That's the important part. Listen, Ryou, I'm gonna have to let you go. It's late, and I . . . I want to check on him before I go to bed. Take care of yourself. You hear me?"

" _Same to you, Mokuba. Until next time, then_?"

"Of course."


End file.
